by Erica Nyden
She locked her arms about his neck, unsure of the quaver in his voice. “I’ve missed you too.”
Chapter 32
Their bedroom was a welcome sight—the rich wood tones of ancient furniture, the red bedspread, and the black dog sleeping on it were comforting mainstays to William’s weary eyes. Head up at hearing his master’s voice, Jasper fell into a fever of panting. The happy reunion of licks and ear scratches was short-lived, however, as William relegated the Labrador to the floor.
Eyes fixed on his wife, he couldn’t remove his confining uniform quickly enough. He threw his belt, tunic, and tie to the floor and fought with the small buttons of his shirt. Olivia watched him struggle with the seductive smile of a courtesan curled against a wall of pillows. Her golden locks had grown a great deal and fell down her bare arms in hunks. Her new curves called to him from beneath a white nightdress that clung to her as if wet, starting with the tiny ball of her abdomen.
His hand smoothed over her hard, swollen stomach before he leant down and kissed its summit. “My God, Olivia, you’re more stunning than ever. This is all right?”
He slipped the straps of her nightdress off her shoulders.
“Absolutely. As soon as I knew you were coming home, I rang Dr. Butler and asked.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. I hadn’t the nerve to ask my mother. Anyway, he said intercourse wouldn’t hurt the baby and we should carry on as usual. Although if we couldn’t, I can’t say what I’d do. Now that I’m no longer sick, I, well, I’m not sure how to explain it.”
“Try,” he said, eyeing the supple skin inside her splayed thighs, a vision he’d dreamt of for months.
“Well, it seems I’ve entered a new stage of my pregnancy. Instead of feeling sick, all I feel is this mad desire for you.”
“And this is a new sensation?” he asked, taking his time revisiting neglected territory.
She tilted her head back, uttering something or other about switching off the light, and he closed his mouth over hers. With no time to remove his trousers completely, he kicked off his shoes and found his way between her opened legs.
Time slowed, as did his impetus. Dizzy with her heady lavender scent, he cherished this intimacy that he shared with no one else. Collarbone, eyelids, and earlobes, his lips sought the smallest plots of her skin. In return, her caresses dismissed the anxiety and loneliness that had come to define him.
Neither spoke, not one word, until they were well spent—tired, but not sleepy.
“When your telegram came this morning, my heart stopped,” she said, breaking the silence. “I thought something terrible had happened.”
“I was worried you might. I thought of surprising you, but then I changed my mind. I apologize for not phoning. It all came about so quickly.”
She wrapped her leg around his hip, giddy. “How long do you get to stay?”
“A week.” His eyes drifted, unable to mirror her excitement. “That should be enough time, they think.”
“Enough time for what?”
He rolled away from her onto his back. “Olivia, I’ve—I’ve done something dreadful.” He pinched his nose with his free hand and squeezed his eyes shut.
“What do you mean? What’s happened?”
Yellow hairs tickled his neck and shoulders.
“My nightmares have returned—the violent ones, the terrors. Ever since we started simulating hand-to-hand combat. Not that they ever truly went away. I haven’t mentioned them because I didn’t want you to worry.” He smiled ruefully, hoping for forgiveness. The soft hand on his cheek deemed it granted. “But lately they’ve been worse, more like they used to be. Neighboring officers have had to wake me in the middle of the night due to the screaming and, hmm, the crying. Two days ago during overnight wilderness training, I role-played the enemy. One of my privates stole up behind me.”
The exercise was to be swift, precise—a dramatization, not real. And still.
“I knew he was coming, but as soon as he laid his hands on me, I—I snapped.” He closed his eyes to block the vision of a man crumpled on the ground with two broken knees and a head speckled with contusions. “I almost broke his neck. He may not recover.”
He couldn’t read her expression. Was she judging him as he judged himself? Did she think he’d become unhinged, that he might snap again and hurt her too? That would never happen. Her presence was his therapy. He’d spilt the truth and was already absorbing the calm she exuded.
“What’s next? For you, I mean.” Her voice was hardening, every syllable more brittle by the second. “You’re not dismissed, then?”
“We ship out as soon as I return.”
She sat up. “Will you be ready?”
His laughter lacked mirth. “Yes. In fact, I’ve had a psychiatric evaluation—two, actually. Much to the delight of my superiors, the doctors say I’m more than ready. If I can do to the enemy what I did to Private Schroeder—well, that’s exactly what they want.”
She slammed her fist onto her bent knee. “Damn it, William! Their solution is for you to come home for a week before they ship you out to war? This is supposed to cure you?”
“There is no cure. I’m to stay out of current trainings in case I hurt someone else, someone on our side. In war, though, I’m an asset. If I use my rage and fury on the enemy, I win. We win.”
Thumbnail between her teeth, she said nothing.
The colonel had joked, calling him a killing machine. It wasn’t funny. “I almost killed him with my bare hands. I was pulled away before I could draw my knife, that’s what they told me. I remember nothing except a sense of drowning once I realized what I’d done. Once I saw his misshapen body being lifted away.”
After delivering a kiss of forgiveness, his angel of mercy crossed her arms. “I don’t think you should go.”
“Olivia.”
“You have a war injury. You do this—you go on this assignment—and you’ll come home in a poorer state than ever imagined. I don’t care if you are an ‘asset.’ ”
He was mute with disappointment. He hoped the subject would be over so he could make love to her again and savor the world he’d missed these past four months—the world he’d miss overseas whilst dodging gunfire or dying at enemy hands.
He raked his fingers forward through his hair. “As well as you know me, Olivia, you’ll never understand this. You’ll never know what this feels like. Not that I have a choice, but I will go. And I will fight.”
She cast her eyes down and gave a reluctant nod. He read the tiny gesture as a positive and drew her on top of him. Settled in his embrace, she rolled with him as he switched off the bedside lamp. The room became pitch-black, the curtains doing their job of blocking the full moon sliding toward the quiet horizon.
“Oh, Mr. William, I’m so glad to see you.”
Mrs. Pollard opened her arms and hugged the breath out of him. He wiped a tear from her eye when they parted and kissed each cheek.
“And you’re to be a father,” she said, turning back to the counter to pour him a cup of tea and regain her composure. “I couldn’t be happier for you and Mistress Olivia.”
“Thank you, Polly. We’re counting on you to act as the little one’s grandmother when he or she arrives. You understand that?”
She lowered her head bashfully—an unusual expression for her. She pushed a cup of tea in his direction. “It would be my honor. Now get Jasper outside before he has an accident!”
The early autumn air was brisk but considerably warmer than that of Durham this time of year. William embraced the balminess from the stone terrace overlooking the back garden. Straight ahead in the victory garden, new vegetable beds joined their smaller, older counterparts. The closest housed potato plants bunched beside one another like old chums, their leaves hinting at treasures beneath the soil ready to be unearthed.
He finished his tea and set the teacup carefully near the door, admiring the floral pattern of his grandmother’s china. What would his tea
come in next week or in a month? A tin cup? Would he have tea at all?
He left the terrace in search of Jasper, who’d gone to relieve himself somewhere behind the trees west of the vegetable patch. On his way, he clung to sunny spots for warmth. If only this were his final homecoming—the one when the war was over and he was home to stay. But that was months away. Christ, who was he kidding? Based on military intelligence, it was more likely to be years.
Having sensed his approach, Jasper trotted out of the trees, tail wagging and happy to have his master’s undivided attention. William delivered a few ear scratches that lead to multiple belly scratches. Jasper snorted as he rubbed his nose fervently in the dewy lawn.
He wished Olivia understood his need to fight. Her side of the argument was valid: She loved him and wanted him out of danger. In her eyes, he’d already served his country, leaving him with unseen scars worse than most. He remained constantly on the defense, wary of strangers, and ready to defuse any threatening situation with intuitive violence.
But there was so much she didn’t know. Things in Europe had gone from hot to boiling. Hitler’s surprise attack on the Soviet Union had been his largest yet. Axis powers were gaining steam, and Britain needed aggressive and surprise attacks of her own. The closer William was to news from the Continent, the more enraged he became. What he’d suffered as a POW was a mere fragment of the führer’s larger plan for his enemies. This was evident from the horror stories delivered by those who’d seen what the Nazis were capable of on a much grander scale than a private compound in North Africa.
The Nazis must be defeated. If William’s damaged temperament benefited his country, then he would use it. Olivia had no inkling of what he was capable of as a soldier, a fighter. He had nightmares, yes; he was disturbed, highly. But he was also determined to win. His thirst for victory had never been so strong. If he could lead his men into a battle that might weaken the Nazis even slightly, surely this would offset the damage inflicted upon him over a year ago.
So far, he’d kept this scenario to himself, afraid Olivia would disagree. The last thing he wanted during their precious time together was row. He loved her like no one ever in his life, and it was because of her that he’d regained the will to recover. But this part of his healing had nothing to do with her. Only he could mend what had been broken inside him. And mend it he would, to become the best husband and father he could be. She needed to trust his will and remain optimistic that he would survive to emerge from war a stronger man.
“More tea?”
Mrs. Pollard held a teapot aloft at the side door.
“Yes, thank you, Polly.”
She poured milk followed by the steaming tawny elixir into the teacup he’d left by the balustrade, then left him alone with his dog and his thoughts.
In the wee hours, Olivia woke to the broad wall of William’s back, her left arm draped over his bare hip. If she got up to use the toilet, he’d wake as soon as she left the bed. Perhaps he’d like to wake up a different way. Deep need for her absentee husband still thundered, and she wasn’t about to let his time at home go to waste. She liked being in charge and having her way with him, as she had earlier that night. She trusted he liked it, too. Under the disorderly bedclothes, she sought her prize before seizing it.
She was thrown onto her back faster than she could move or speak.
“Are you ready to die?” seethed a menacing shadow with William’s voice. He held her arms high above her head as he hovered above her.
She twisted impotently in his grasp. He could hurt the baby; he could kill them both. He completely overpowered her. But even so, she understood what he did not: He was still asleep and at the mercy of a nightmare he thought he was living.
As though reminding her of his presence, he grunted a string of profanities and thrust his weight into her wrists so roughly she expected to hear a crack. Sharp knees pressed her thighs into the mattress. Her voice was her only defense, and panicked as she was, she struggled to speak loudly enough to penetrate his stupor.
“William!” Breath hard to catch, panting. “William, it’s Olivia. O-livia! Wake up, darling. Wake up!”
Ignoring her completely, he stretched his free hand toward his right ankle as though searching for something. It returned as a balled fist, inches from her face and ready to strike. Silhouetted by the fireplace’s dying embers, his head tilted back and forth, up and down like a boxer loosening up before a fight.
“William! Wake up, damn it. You’re hurting me!” She shoved against him with every syllable.
The ominous profile stilled.
“What?” he whispered, looking back and forth between his fist and his victim. “What the bloody hell?”
In a flash, he freed her wrists. Once his knees left her soft thighs, he slinked away, a looming shadow absorbed in the room’s darkness.
Olivia clambered to the bedside lamp and switched it on. His face displayed not an ounce of the fury it held seconds ago. Dilated pupils as black as the center of a blood-red poppy crowded out the blue as he stared back at her. She’d never seen William look at her like this, as though he wished the person in front of him were anyone but her.
He gathered his garments and left the room.
She brought her knees in close to her quaking body. Rapid breaths filled her chest and she rubbed her wrists, willing the return of circulation to her cold, trembling hands.
William sat at the foot of their unmade bed, waiting. When Olivia emerged from the bathroom, her tired eyes showed no sign of surprise at his presence. That was good.
Wet and combed back from her face, her hair looked darker than normal. Her dainty feet approached with quiet footfalls, and her light blue dressing gown swished at her ankles. He had no idea what she would say; only what he deserved. He wanted to reach out and take her wrists—gently, this time—but rose to his feet instead, humiliated, awaiting punishment.
“How badly did I hurt you?”
She held up her arms. Purple splotches covered her wrists.
“Christ.” Not meeting her eyes, he turned toward the wardrobe. “That decides it, then.”
“Decides what?”
“I’m off. I’ll get a room in the village or St. Austell. It’s not safe for you and the baby if I stay. You were right.” He heaved his leather bag onto the bed and began to rummage through it, trying to determine what else he might need over the next week.
Olivia’s hand smashed down onto the top of the bag.
“You can’t leave!” She took his hand and placed it on the small mound of her belly. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Your leaving will solve nothing.”
“Coming home was a bad idea. You were right, Olivia. Going back to war has made me far worse than before. I’m lethal. My mind will remain fixed on the enemy until this fight is over.” With hands on her shoulders, he moved her aside and returned to his bag. “But I still want to see you. We’ll have dinner tomorrow, someplace public.”
“No!” She hurled the bag to the floor.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“What happened was an accident,” she said. “A mistake. You didn’t know what you were doing. I should’ve known better than to—”
“Goddamn it, it’s nothing to do with you!” The rage he possessed after realizing what he’d done returned. He stepped back, tempering his voice. “This is my problem, and you know it.”
“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “Go.”
She dropped onto the bed, but the hard line of her mouth crumpled.
He knelt in front of her. “My worst fears were realized tonight: My demons took over and I frightened you. I hurt you. I can’t risk that happening again, especially with the baby coming.” He rotated her bruised wrists, their softness reflecting her innocence in all this. Overcome with shame, he buried his face in her lap, where her dressing gown absorbed his tireless laments. “I’m so sorry.”
“What were you dreaming? Can you tell me?” In one fluid movement, she slid to the flo
or beside him. The bedside lamp shined on her bare legs. Her calves were muscular but supple, her knees smooth. Her pink varnished toes reminded him of sugared almonds.
He forced himself to focus. “Wirth. It’s always Wirth. I can’t get the bloody bastard out of my head. Ridiculous to think I can fix this.”
“Fix your night terrors?”
“Fix all of it. If I use my talents to aid my country, then the nightmares will go away. I’ll be myself, like before—before this darkness clouded every thought, waking and dreaming.”
“Revenge won’t help, and—”
“This isn’t about revenge. It’s about facing my fears, and I’m ready. I’ve been ready. But, well, what if it doesn’t work?”
“Your nightmares aren’t going away. They’re a part of you and always will be. You need to learn to live with them in a way—”
“In a way that doesn’t harm the people I love.”
She frowned. “Including yourself.”
He snickered. “I’m afraid I make a better soldier than husband. Fatherhood will likely be just as disappointing.”
“My grandmother says it’s often our attitudes that fulfill our destinies.”
“And what the devil does that mean?”
“It means that if you really believe those words—and I don’t think you do—they will come true.”
He raised his hands before her. “I’ve killed with these hands. These hands that I touch you with are the same hands that have taken numerous lives. And to imagine they’ll soon hold our infant child—that doesn’t bother you in the slightest?”
“I married a soldier. And though I prayed it wouldn’t happen, I knew you’d likely return to war.” Her eyes locked on his. “But we’re in this together. We always have been. Don’t separate me from your suffering. Let me help you work through it, please?”
Her kind brown eyes expected consent.
His remorseful nod gave it.
